In White and Green and Gray
by deGorgeous
Summary: CS Tree Farm AU. Emma becomes attached to a certain tree during the holiday season, and comes to develop feelings for one of the tree lot's employees, Killian Jones.


There's a place she visits several times a week. The material yearning usually reserved for expensive handbags and designer shoes, Emma feels for a particular green spruce found in this decently sized and well-stocked tree lot just on the edge of town.

She found it by chance—or rather, Henry found it—the day after Thanksgiving, strolling down the street with her forearms covered in shopping bag handles, stacked like chunky bracelets and digging into her skin through her layers of sweaters. Emma thought it silly at first: to even consider buying a tree this early (and succumbing to the pull of Black Friday, because of her son and best friend's urging, had been ridiculous enough). But with Henry eagerly running off towards an impressive section of gated land that was filled with rows upon rows of evergreen before she could refuse, Emma was obligated to follow.

Their stay had been brief, with Henry pointing at nearly every tree in sight and announcing it as 'the one,' then declaring they'd need a full day to properly assess the lot's entire collection. Just as they were about to take their leave, Emma had spotted it: a comparatively shorter, somewhat lopsided, definitely irregular looking Christmas tree. Hard to find but even harder to forget once she had laid eyes on it, with its asymmetrical branches reaching out towards her, confident in their welcoming of a kindred spirit.

"Can I help you with anything today, lass?"

She had promptly snapped out of her daze at the man's question, her bags nearly falling off her arms with the exertion of her quick movement. He turned sheepish at her reaction, a timid laugh and his fidgety hands giving him away.

"Uh, no," Emma had stammered out, Henry—thankfully—choosing that moment to join her. "Just looking."

He had kindly responded to Henry's enthusiasm with a genuine excitement of his own. He took pride in his work; wasn't some disgruntled employee who had become jaded by the holiday season. His name tag read _'Killian,'_ and Emma had committed it to memory along with the way his bright blue eyes and infectious smile had made her stomach flip.

Now, passing under the _'Jones Bros. Tree and Landscape_ ' sign that hangs above the entry's archway, she scans the lot for his familiar face as she makes her way to her coveted tree. Since Emma's first trip, going there (and seeing him) had become a comforting routine: she would greet the sapling, check on it's condition, and make light conversation with Killian—where he'd consistently ask after Henry—before insisting she had to head back to… whatever it is she needed to get done.

There's a light dusting of snow that's accumulated on the whole property, flurries of white floating in the air. It's close to closing time, only a sprinkling of people pacing around. She spots him as she's making her way down the main aisle, but pauses when she observes him in the middle of an unpleasant exchange between him and another, elderly gentleman with white hair and a clipboard he's not afraid to gesture aggressively with. Their exchange ends with the old man shouting something over his shoulder while Killian looks baffled but somehow taking it in stride.

She waves at him as he walks closer, his pace quickening when he recognizes her, his annoyance of just a few seconds ago apparently forgotten. He's wearing his standard emerald-colored apron—with a slightly updated version of their logo printed on it, she notices, not for the first time—over his black coat, with a knitted scarf and black leather gloves.

"Swan!" he calls out, breaking into a sprint to make it the last few feet. "Always a pleasure. What can I do for you today?"

"Oh, you know—"

"Just looking," they say at the same time, both laughing at her predictability. "Sorry," Emma adds. "Did I catch you at a bad time?" She gestures down the path and Killian immediately gets her meaning, bashfully inclining his head and scratching behind his right ear (and she takes pride in heeding his own predictability).

"Ah, that. I wish I could say that was an uncommon occurrence but I've grown quite used to it. No need to worry, love." His tone is bright but Emma knows there's more to it than that. That's there definitely more to _him_ , and suddenly she's significantly more interested in how he's doing than the tree. "I take it you want to see how the old girl's doing?"

"I just did actually," she fibs, tucking a loose segment of blonde hair behind her red-tipped ear. "Well, I better get going."

He nods in acceptance, a hint of sadness in his expression that she's surprised she's never picked up previously, and they both begin to go their separate ways until Emma turns on her heel and chases after him, pulling on his arm to get him to stop.

"You know what," she starts, willing herself to get this all out before she has second thoughts. "I'm starving. Do you wanna maybe grab a bite to eat?"

Killian's whole face lights up. "I'd be delighted. Granny's sound good?" Emma wordlessly accepts, her grin matching his. "Give me ten minutes and I'll be right with you."

As she watches his retreating form, she lets out the breath she hadn't know she'd been holding and makes her way to the tree, restless to tell it all about what just happened.

-/-

The dinner is almost fully occupied when they step in, buzzing with the patrons' chatter and the clamor of colliding dishes. Emma had expected nothing less though. Granny's is the unofficial capital of the small township of Storybrooke, a hub for every resident regardless of occupation or social standing. Emma, surprisingly, likes it when it's packed. She used to hate the hustle-and-bustle of Boston, the cacophony of the night life and holiday rush, before moving here with Henry three years ago. But she finds she likes the anonymity of a crowd; likes to feel the company of these people in particular.

No one turns a head as she and Killian walk further inside, squeezing between table chairs and shopping bags until they reach the second to last booth. They both give sighs of relief as they slide into their seats, removing their scarves and coats as they settle into a comfortable silence.

Emma finds it's one of the things she likes about him: how they just seem to _get_ each other. He doesn't push. Teases her and knows how to hold his own, to be sure, but theres's a care he has with her that she's frequently taken aback by. He has never mocked her routine; always asks how she is without prying, without digging for more than she's willing to divulge. She figures it's just the way he is, but secretly hopes he's especially considerate with her. _Because_ it'sher.

She realizes that she doesn't really know much about Killian. Doesn't even know his last name, even though he knows hers. She watches as he takes off his right glove with his teeth, a blush creeping up her cheeks when she catches herself practically gaping at him. He leaves the leather glove on his left, false hand. He hasn't ever mentioned it, and she really doesn't care, but that detail about him only makes her all the more curious about this guy.

Ruby, the waitress, arrives at their table, giving a knowing glance to each of them and fighting a smile as she takes their orders. Grilled cheese and onion rings for her, grilled cheese and fries for him. The brown-haired woman leans in closer to Killian as she takes their menus, her inflection turning more professional than flirty.

"Before I forget," she says lowly. "Granny wanted to know if you'd be here on the 26th."

"That's certainly the plan," he responds brightly, but Emma picks up on something else behind his eyes, like an enduring resignation. Ruby withdraws from their booth, navigating through the same expanding horde they had to just moments ago.

"She's making you work the day after Christmas?" Emma asks once Ruby is out of earshot.

"Aye, but it really isn't a problem. I insisted on it actually," he admits, taking a sip of his water as he reclines into the cushioned seat. "The tree lot will be closed by then, and I don't start my shift at the cannery until after the new year."

Her brows shoot up at that. "Just how many jobs do you have? I've never seen you around. I—I feel like I'd remember someone like you. You're not easy to forget."

"Some might say 'striking,'" he jests, then sobers up a bit. "I have any number of posts in a given season," he discloses, scratching at his neck in a nervous tick she's seen several times before. When he looks back at her it's from beneath thick eyelashes and with an unsure countenance. But he must see something in her that gives him the confidence to continue. "We do what we must to make ends meet."

"Oh I know all about that," Emma says, relaxing into her own side of the booth. "I can't even count on both hands the amount of jobs I've had to work just to put food on the table."

"Well, I've only got the one," he jokes, waving his prosthetic in the air. There's a pause, and then they're both lost in a fit of laughter that has tears forming in the corners of her eyes and creates wrinkles at the edges of his.

She hasn't laughed like that in a long time, and she senses he hasn't either.

"Killian Jones, resident all-purpose employee," he adds good-naturedly, and finally Emma has a full name.

She quirks her head in contemplation. "Wait, 'Jones'? As in—"

"'Jones Brothers Tree and Landscape', aye. The very same."

"I didn't know you owned that place. That's great," she says admiringly, but then his face falls a little and she mentally kicks herself, worried she might have said the wrong thing.

"It was while it lasted. My brother and I opened it when we were but two young lads. We wanted to make a name for ourselves, as Liam would say…" Killian gets wistful at the mention of his family, drifting off a bit at the end. He has Emma's rapt attention nevertheless, and she leans on her elbows to get that much closer to him.

His voice gets rougher, deeper as he continues, and she glad, at least, that he feels enough at ease to share this part of himself with her. He doesn't get into much detail. Sort of just gives her bullet points, like rehearsed phrases he's probably had to say a million times, but there is a profound earnestness in his tone. Their little business did well in the beginning, he tells her, but then their father left inexplicably—when he was eleven and Liam was eighteen. He'd left them in debt ("His only parting gift, I'm afraid," Killian quips humorlessly) and they were forced to sell their business to the old man who owns it now. _The guy with the clipboard_ , Emma determines. Lots of things start falling into place, among them being the disparity between the front sign and the modernized emblem on his work apron.

"He set up an arrangement with Mr. Gold," he explains, skipping right ahead to the present. She feels an undercurrent of dread at the mention of the name, the reputed millionaire who has virtually everyone under his thumb. "He lets me reside in a house on his property, so long as I lend my services to the lot and the cannery year-round." He doesn't specify, but Emma gets his meaning: he works for free, and is for all intents and purposes indentured to the old guy; has been for most of his life.

Just then, Ruby returns with their meals, placing the plates in front of them without a word, just a little wink directed at Emma, then disappears as quickly as she came.

"What… about Liam?"

She watches as he takes a bite of his sandwich, wiping at his beard, buying some time to think of how best to answer, she's sure. Emma wants to tread carefully. Knows that if the roles were reversed she'd have shut him out the moment the tree farm was broached. But he seems to _trust_ her. Whatever she did to earn it, she has no idea, but she cherishes it all the same.

"He's no longer with me. Died in combat nearly 10 years ago."

"Sorry," is all she can really say. She's known loss before. She considers herself quite the expert on it, in fact. And she knows no generic words of condolences ever help. So Emma reaches out her hand, rests it lightly on his wrist, doesn't move it until he makes eye contact with her. When he does, all the air leaves her lungs, beguiled by the intensity of the blue staring right back into her jade.

His lips turn up slightly, bowing his head in appreciation.

They finish eating no more than an hour later, filling the time with more casual conversation, which flows effortlessly despite their somber start. They split the bill, at Emma's insistence, and make their way out of the diner and into the chilly winter air.

"You know, I've been meaning to ask you, Swan."

She hums in response, swaying against him as they walk towards her yellow Bug.

"Why do you visit that tree, without buying it?"

"Are you trying to say I'm a bad customer?" Emma deflects, hands moving deeper into her coat pockets.

"Well I'd say you're not much a customer at all," he banters, making her smirk despite herself. "Don't misunderstand, your visitations are the highlight of my week. I just wonder why you do it."

Emma knows she can divert their topic of discussion, and that he'd let her avoid his question, if she wanted, and it makes her feel safe. Like her honesty won't be taken advantage of. She figures she owes him at least this, to pay him back for opening up to her over their late lunch. And if there's one person she can confide in about it, it's him.

So she takes in a deep breath and tells him. "I guess, I feel like we have a lot in common." She doesn't bother clarifying whether it's Killian or the tree she's referring to, and frankly she's not even sure herself. "It's sort of a constant. It's always there. I just… I want it to have a good home, and I'm not sure I can give it that." They reach her car, and when she turns to look at him she's met with that same, genuine look of his that makes her knees weak. He's actually _listening_ to her. No judgement or comments about how silly she's being, just silent encouragement for her to keep going. "And anyway, our place is too small and we've bought a fake one that Mary Margaret's already decorated, so. I know it doesn't make sense but—"

"It makes perfect sense, love. To tell the truth, I've grown quite fond of her myself."

Killian angles himself towards her, his palm resting against the hood of the Volkswagen. Emma's eyes dart to his mouth, swallowing hard. But he simply makes to open the driver's side for her and she remembers herself. They say good night, with promises to see each other around. And as she heads back to her loft, she's not sure who he was talking about either.

-/-

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Emma wakes just after sunrise. In the few days following her informal date with Killian, there's been one thought that won't escape her mind. Actually, there are two: she needs to buy that tree, and she needs to ask him out for real.

The apartment is uncommonly peaceful, and as she dresses for the day she peeks over the balcony of her bedroom that overlooks the loft's living room and kitchen area. She half expects to see Mary Margaret already up and making coffee, but it seems even her early-bird roommate has been tired out by the busy holiday season. Emma sneaks out as silently as she's able, making sure to peek in on Henry before she does.

She hasn't been to the tree farm since their meeting at the diner. She's wanted to go. Felt an inch beneath her skin, her feet almost taking her there on their accord whenever she'd to go run errands or taken Henry for some last-minute shopping. But what would she say to him if she saw him? A part of her wants their relationship to continue as it always had. An even larger part, however, longs for something more.

Emma hasn't felt like this in years, not since the first months of knowing Henry's father, when everything was still fresh and full of possibility (and before he had left without so much as a word or well wish). Maybe it's the brisk wind that hits her skin as she walks, or the cheerful Christmas spirit that's finally made it's way into her bones, but she feels like she wants to actually take a _chance_ on this guy. To have more long conversations and exchanged looks over a meal at Granny's. To take a leap of faith that he isn't like the rest.

The verdant lot comes into view as she turns the corner, her pace quickening instead of slowing. _No more running_ , she vows. She is determined to find him before the morning crowd and eager to get this all off her chest. She imagines Killian's startled appearance when she tells him she'd like to, at last, buy the leafy fir that's been calling to her all this time, and her pulse hastens when she tries to envision his reaction to her asking him out.

Upon entering through the flourishing archway—and never again will she be able to look at the overhead sign the same way—Emma searches for him. The area is mostly unoccupied, save for a few wandering townsfolk, so finding Killian shouldn't be as difficult as it's proving to be. He'd told her previously he'd be working the early shift today (had mentioned wanting to keep at least the night before Christmas for himself) but he is nowhere to be seen.

She goes to her tree instead, marching town the now sparse passage that had once been filled to the brim with evergreens, some piled on top of each other to make room. She gets to the end of the row, reaching the gate enclosure, knowing she's gone too far. She walks back, does a double take, carefully scrutinizing the grassy selections more closely to be sure she hadn't skipped over it somehow, but her tree wasn't in its usually spot. Had they moved it? Or had someone else bought it before she could?

There's a sputtering, portly attendant that passes her by just then, the tip of his red wool cap bouncing with each stride. He's mumbling a tirade under his breath, bee-lining past her when she attempts to approach him, his name tag reading _'Smee.'_

"Excuse me," she tries again, more forcefully this time. He stops only when she literally puts herself in his path, refusing to budge. "Can you help me?"

"What," he replies boorishly, looking her up and down. She slants her head in indignation, eyes widening at his tactlessness, and she knows instantly that he won't be of any help to her. So she goes about seeking the person who will.

Emma's blunt right back. "Is Killian in today?"

"Nope," Smee says. "I'm covering for him. Just took off, the jerk. You know, he's always asking me cover this, take that, if you can even call it ask—"

"Hey," she interrupts, holding her open palm to his face. "I don't care. Is he coming in at all?"

"Miss, I wouldn't be surprised if he never came back."

With that, he continues on his way and she's left alone with the aching possibility of never seeing Killian again. But he has to be coming back, right? His co-worker was just bitter, that's all. He wouldn't just leave, not without at least saying goodbye. He'd make sure to see her one last time before he went.

Wouldn't he?

She drags her knee-high boots along the dank mud and thawing snow. There's a sloshing noise with each step, and the wind starts gusting with more strength as Emma dejectedly exits the tree lot, empty-handed.

-/-

The docks are typically secluded, but even more so this time of year. Perfectly quiet, no one dares to be so close to the water in this cold, not by choice anyway. But Emma's always found the ocean calming. Has, for all long as she can remember, been soothed by the lapping of the waves and the crisp sent in the air. She can think more clearly when she's here, and she has _plenty_ to think about.

It's been a couple of hours since her departure from _Jones Bros._ , dried tear streaks still stuck in the crevices of her nose. She doesn't know why it had affected her so. Acknowledges she's overreacting and tells herself to take it for what it was: a pleasant stretch of time that she resolves to not get resentful about. But there's a tightness in her chest whenever she thinks too hard on what might have been. On what they could've had.

And Emma doesn't even blame him. His life here had been rough—which was putting it lightly—with seemingly no way out of his situation. He had no one to tether him here, certainly not the neurotic woman who visits a withering plant like clockwork but never takes the plunge.

She has just hoped…

Emma's broken out of her self-deprecation by the loud roaring of a pick-up truck parking several yards away. A woman gets out, stepping down to speak to a guy in a black coat and knitted scarf. She hands him something—a piece of paper and pen—and then he's scrawling somewhat awkwardly. Emma gets up from her bench to get a better look, squinting as best as she can, then her heart stops when she sees it: a short, lopsided, irregular looking Christmas tree.

"It can't be."

The woman gets back into her truck, the man saluting at her as she drives away. He adjusts the spruce as he turns, coming into full view. It's Killian, hauling it by the rope that's tied all around it, struggling a bit in doing so with just the one hand.

She speed walks towards him, then breaks into a jog along the pier as she calls out his name. He looks up right away, pausing in the middle of the street. He gives her a toothy smile, his whole demeanor changing from fatigued to jubilant.

"Emma," he says on an exhale. "What're you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." The apples of her cheeks push up higher, her muscles straining in the most pleasant way. "Shouldn't you be at the lot?"

"Aye, but I had a pressing matter to take care of." Killian steps aside to reveal the tree, resting on the concrete but looking no worse for the wear.

"I was wondering where she went."

"Apologies for the scare," he smirks, moving to lift the lady in question upright. "They were clearing away our inventory and were about to throw this lovely lass away. We couldn't have that now could we."

"So what was with the truck?"

He hesitates for a beat, clearly unaware that she'd seen that much. He swipes at his nose, averting his gaze before admitting: "I had to chase her down. They'd already packed her up, so I tracked the shipment and went after her." Emma gapes at him, jaw slack, awed by the lengths he must've gone through. Her face softens, truly touched by his actions. No one's ever done anything like this for her. "Fortunately they let me buy her off them—"

He's cut off by the firm press of her lips against his. He's stiff at first, then melts into her embrace, her arms slung over his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair. He rests his hand and stump at her waist, nipping at her mouth and sighing contentedly as she pulls away.

"Thank you," she breathes, cheeks tinged with pink and forehead touching his own. He's speechless, only managing to huff out a laugh in response.

They unravel from one another, straightening their thick coats and adjusting clothes. She's beaming unabashedly up at him now, gripping at his lapel and walking in tandem with him down the sidewalk, her beloved tree scraping along behind them.

"Do you want to come over for Christmas dinner tomorrow at my place?" Her offer is casual, no longer feeling the nerves from earlier. He's here to stay, and he wants this just as much as she does.

"It would be my honor, Swan."

"Good."

.  
.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Killian's boss at the tree lot is meant to be the ship captain from the 5x11 flashback. He didn't have a name other than "Captain" so I just referred to him as the old guy._


End file.
